


Ghost Towns

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, I don’t know how but they found me - Fandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore
Genre: Deaf Character, Discrimination, Flower Shops, Ghost Gerard Way, Graphic mentions of suicide, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of attempted rape, New England, Patrick Stump’s Dad, Ray Toro (mentioned) - Freeform, deaf hayley williams, frank gets banned from florida, gerard is LITERALLY stuck in the 1980s, ghost gerard, hayley is like 14, its only for one chapter but it’s There, like 2 of these chapters are dedicated to taking about jam, lindsey night show up as a badass middle aged woman who owns a dog named goose, lots of death and suicide mentions, mikey is in his 50s, patrick is 16, patrick owns a bakery, possibly Brendon Urie, possibly featuring billie joe armstrong as an old man, pyrokinetic frank iero, set in new england, yes this was originally published as petekey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 02:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a world where being paranormal is illegal, Frank Iero can no longer safely stay in Florida. On the run from the police, he’s forced to travel North with only the clothes on his back. It’s only until he reaches the dingy town of Lycester does Frank think he can finally settle down again.That’s when Gerard appears. In his ghastly, transparent glory.Now on top of everything, Frank has to risk it all because some ghost can’t figure out how to leave his motel room; there’s a creepy kid at the bakery and a homeless deaf girl that he always seems to run into. Not to mention Gerard’s (alive) younger brother, who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.Jesus Christ, Frank needs a nap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this as an original story in november for nanowrimo (i actually managed to finish it in less than a month so yes, some of this is kind of shit but i’m very proud of it) and published the first 4 chapters as petekey in december. now it’s back in may as frerard lol.
> 
> also i’m editing this story as i update each chapter to make everything seem less rushed so hopefully i won’t mess up in the process. 
> 
> alsO i sent the original version of this story to my english teacher so i hope he doesn’t secretly read frerard fanfiction in between grading papers because then he’s gonna know this is me.

Frank hoped he was far enough from home. 

Surely, nobody would find him here. He couldn't carry on even if they could. 

The motel Frank stopped by was extremely small. It was a single-floored building, long and rectangular shaped. He pushed open the chipped front doors and stepped inside. 

Inside was nothing special, as Frank expected. Damp carpet smell hung thickly in the air and burned out oil lanterns still hung on the walls, its last flame extinguished a lifetime ago. In the center of the room sat a serious-looking man behind a desk. 

"Welcome to Lyecester Motel. May I help you?" the man asked, adjusting his posture. Even sitting, he was nearly as tall as Frank. His blue eyes sparkled, as though Frank were the most exciting thing he'd seen all day. Judging by the motel's vacancy, he probably was.

"Uh, yeah," Frank mumbled. The man's attentive gaze unnerved him. "Do you have any open rooms? I'll probably have to rent for a while."

"All of the rooms are open. Take your pick," the man replied simply. 

"What?" Frank asked. "Don't I need to fill out any papers?"

"Of course. We can get to that in a minute," the man’s tone stayed flat and even as he spoke. He made little movement besides his mouth when he talked, as though something were holding him back. The man leaned over his desk, offering his hand. Frank shook it. 

"Mr. Weekes. Pleasure to meet you. May I please see some form of identification?"

—

Frank laid down on the motel bed, a hole in his heart and in his wallet. The familiar ache of homesickness began to trickle its way down his spine. 

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He wasn't supposed to be here. He didn't want to leave Florida. He didn't want to hurt that little girl. He didn't want any of this to happen. 

A jolt of anger surged through him. Frank bolted upright. He rolled up his sleeves with more force than necessary and set his forearm out in front of him. 

Frank concentrated hard. He channeled the same energy inside of him that had been released that night. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, a voice was yelling at him to stop. It was too risky, he could be seen. But Frank didn't listen. He needed clarification that everything happening to him was his reality. 

A small burning sensation began in the pit of Frank’s stomach, slowly making its way up the veins of his arms and resting in his palm. His hand shook as the feeling built. Frank clenched his eyes shut, not opening them until he dared to look. 

When he finally peered from through his eyelashes, his heart skipped a beat. 

There, floating slightly above his palm, rested a tiny orb of light. It made no movement or sound, and it was definitely smaller than the literal bursts of flame he had shot from his hands. His hands. The men. The girl in the car. On fire. Oh god, he fucked up. Frank fucked up so bad. 

He closed his fist tightly, immediately extinguishing the flame, and flung it towards the nearest wall. He no longer felt angry, but ashamed. Ashamed of who he was and what he had done and what the consequences had been. Frank’s family most surely thought of him as a disgrace. Every policeman within a 100 mile radius of his home in Florida was searching for him. 

Frank sat at the edge of his bed and wallowed in his regrets for a moment. A small scraping sound brought him to his attention. He turned his head just in time to see the lamp on the bedside table shift slightly. Almost as if it was moving towards him sympathetically. 

Strange.


	2. Chapter 2

Frank woke up to the sound of his own stomach growling. His hands fumbled and grasped at the covers, getting himself further tangled in the motel sheets. 

"Ngh," he mumbled. His stomach let out another angry rumble. Frank needed to find somewhere to eat. 

He rolled over. The bedside clock read 10:32 am. Surely the stores were up and running, right? 

Frank threw on his last pair of clean clothes from his suitcase—dark jeans and a sweater—and put on his puffy jacket. Winter was approaching fast and the seaside breeze assisted the cold weather. 

The crisp air nipped at Frank’s exposed fingers. He was beginning to regret choosing to only wear fingerless gloves. They weren't very practical. He recalled passing a bakery somewhere on his way to the motel. His stomach grumbled once again at the thought of food. Passing through the small town was, in its own way, quite beautiful. It was gloomy and cramped with rickety houses. The smell of the ocean was nearly overwhelming. 

Finally, Frank rounded a corner to see Stump and Son's Baked Goods. He opened the door and a bell chimed above. 

"Hello!" greeted a hearty, round-faced man from behind the counter. "May I interest you in anything?" he gestured to the glass display of pastries and ingredients below him. 

"Yes," Frank answered, eyeing the menus and display cases, "can I get a loaf of bread and a jar of strawberry jelly, please?"

"Of course," the man said below his mustache. He bent over to retrieve the goods, and a small boy-no older than sixteen-walked in through the back room.

The boy looked taken aback when he first laid eyes on Frank , "Oh, hello. Who are you?" he asked. 

"Frank," Frank answered, "Frank Iero."

"Well, Frank Iero, I'm Patrick Stump. Pleasure to meet you," Patrick smiled politely and offered his hand out. Frank shook it. It felt soft and warm, like fresh dough. "Are you just passing through Lyecester?" 

"No, I'm staying in a motel room here until I can buy."

"Oh!" the other man said, who Frank was now assuming was Patrick’s father. "I'd  
better get you the freshest loaf of bread then, and I know just the loaf! We haven't had a new customer in nearly ten years!"

"No, no. You really don't have to--" Frank was cut off by Mr. Stump rushing out of earshot into the back room.

Patrick gave Frank an amused shrug. He reached somewhere behind the counter and turned the knob on the vintage radio. Static emitted loudly from the box, making Frank wince and resist the urge to cover his ears. Patrick messed with the dial until eventually a voice spoke through.

"--Can you believe some people are trying to defend- to defend these _animals?_ " an angry man on the radio shouted. "There are some imbeciles out there trying to justify the actions of Paras? Do they know that just two days ago, a Para electrocuted a woman's two month old baby to death in Kentucky. Did you hear that? Two months old!"

Patrick had a look of unmasked disgust on his face. Frank tried to imitate it as well, but it only made him feel sick to his stomach.

As though his guardian angel had came to rescue him, Mr. Stump entered with a loaf of bread in his arms. Frank paid for his things quickly and left the shop as politely as possible. He breathed in the fresh air he so desperately craved. Breaths turned to gulps, and gulps turned to sobs. Tears burned hot around Frank’s eyelids and cooled around his chin. 

The reality that nobody had any sympathy for his condition hit him once again, as it had many times before. Frank could barely see through his tears anymore. His entire body wracked. What a terrible excuse for a son, his parents should've killed him when he was young like some did. Frank was a Para. A fucking disgusting Para who could do nothing but harm. The reporters and journalists and government officials were right all along. Maybe it would do him good to turn himself in to the police. 

Frank’s hands shook as he tried to insert his key into the motel room door. He needed to get somewhere quickly before he accidentally lost control.

It took him another ten minutes in his room before Frank finally calmed down. He sat on his mattress, eyes closed, head pounding from his vicious sobbing. He rested his throbbing temple against the cool wall, hoping to soothe the piercing flame behind his brain.

Frank’s eyes shot open. Walls weren't supposed to feel sticky, were they? Pulling away, he discovered his own toothpaste smeared across a small section beside his bed. It wasn't there a few minutes ago, and Frank surely didn't do it. 

A small burst of fear erupted in Frank’s chest. Was there someone in his motel room? A robber? A murderer?

Soon after, there was a thud from across the room. Frank turned just in time to see his dresser shake. He sighed and shook his head, letting his long bangs fall into his brown eyes.

He couldn't deal with this right now.


	3. Chapter 3

One week later, Frank was completely, one hundred percent certain that his room was haunted. 

Sure, the creaky floorboards and ceilings could have been side effects of the building's age, but did jars of jelly practically launch themselves across the air when the house began to settle? Frank didn't think so. 

He grabbed one of his dirty shirts and cleaned the mess with it the best he could. The floor was still sticky once he was finished, but Frank ruled that as a problem for another time and threw his stained shirt into the sink for him to wash later. 

Now irritated and jelly-less, Frank took his green jacket off of the hanger by the doorway and swung it over his shoulders. He was going to kill this ghost- or he would, if it weren't for the fact that they were already dead. Did they know how low Frank was running on money because of them? He was going to have to find a job soon. 

The cool ocean breeze stung his face the moment he stepped outside his door. The sky overhead was a solid dark gray color, as Frank had found to be the usual in this dreary seaside village. He continued down the cobblestone path, admiring potted flowers and wondering how the dingy boats tied to the harbor hadn't sunk yet. His hands buried themselves deep into his pockets.

The bakery approached faster than Frank anticipated, and he soon found himself walking through the doorway. The bell chimed familiarly. 

"Good evening, Frank Iero. Back again so soon?" Patrick asked almost immediately. Frank couldn't help but feel slightly unnerved that he remembered (and addressed him by) his full name. 

"Hey, Patrick. Is it just you today?" Frank asked, trying to make sense of this boy. 

Patrick waved a hand, "Yeah, Pa's fishing out on the harbor. The market can get too expensive sometimes, you know? Anyways, how can I help you today?"

"Oh, yeah," Frank cleared his throat. "Do you have any more jelly? The strawberry kind? My other jar fell off the counter." He decided to avoid telling Patrick the fact that it actually flew off the counter, considering he's pretty sure the sign about witchcraft in the front was pro-Salem Witch Trials. Frank didn't want to end up like the next Giles Corey. 

"Of course!" Patrick smiled with all of his teeth. "Do you want another one? On me. In case you have another accident. Goodness knows it's getting too cold to be walking outside often."

Frank shook his head as Patrick brought out another jar, "I couldn't possibly- didn't you say you needed the money?"

The boy pressed a finger to his lips, "It's no big deal. What will one jar do? I'm just trying to make your transition into this place easier." Patrick almost forcefully shoved the jelly into Frank’s arms. 

Frank laughed nervously, "Seriously, Patrick. I'll survive."

"Oh, don’t say that. You can never be too sure." Patrick’s eyes were wide and glassy beneath his thin glasses.

"Fine! Let me pay for the first one," Frank fished around in his pocket for his wallet and extracted a handful of coins. He dumped them all onto the countertop. 

"Keep the change," he said, already halfway out the door. He pocketed his jellies along with his hands, which were stiffening in the cold. 

—

Frank locked the door behind him and hung up his coat once again. He was about to grab his jellies when he heard a series of thumps and bangs from behind him. 

Frank turned around cautiously, ready to fight any intruder. Suddenly, he was glad that he hadn't been holding the jelly, because what he was met with would've made him drop them.

Sitting on his floor, rubbing his head and cursing, was a boy around Frank’s age, give or take a year. He had tangled black hair and tired, red rimmed eyes, and looked like he had stepped out of a time machine (complete with the shirt tucked into the dad jeans and all.) Most importantly, though, was that the boy was fucking _transparent_. So transparent that Frank needed to focus in order to keep him in his vision.

"What," Frank took a breath, "the ever loving–”

He wasn’t even able to finish his sentence. The boy didn't acknowledge him at first, only slumped back against Frank’s bed and groaned, "What the hell..," he trailed off. 

"Well, glad to see we're both equally confused. How the fuck did you get into my room?"

The boy looked up, as if only noticing that Frank was there. "I-I dont-" he shook his head like a wet dog and looked up with pleading eyes. "Please don't turn me in."

Frank took another moment to assess the situation. A transparent boy- man?- around his age just knocked over all of Frank’s belongings and was begging not to be turned into the police. Could he be another person like Frank? 

"It would be a bit hypocritical of me," he murmured.

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “What can you do?”

Frank shifted his weight from foot to foot, contemplating whether to show the boy his abilities. Eventually, he crouched down out of view of his room’s window and concentrated until a ball of light floated above his palm. 

"Woah," the boy said, before breaking into a ginormous grin. "That's pretty rad."

"Rad? You do realize it's 2018," Frank said.

"Already?" Frank was getting uncomfortable squatting on the floor, and stood up. "Listen, I know you have questions, but I don't know how any of this happened."

"What?"

"I - well I guess there's no point in trying to cover up," the boy sighed and adjusted himself, brushing off his see-through jeans. 

"Hi," he straightened his leather jacket and fixed his hair, "I'm Gerard. I'm dead."

"Frank," he replied breathlessly. "I'm alive. Do you want to sit down? Maybe we can clear this up?" 

Gerard scratched the back of his neck, "I don't know if I can, but I'll try." He tentatively attempted to place his hand on Frank’s mattress, but it slipped right through the cotton sheets. 

"Right. Well, then. We could stand, I guess. Float?"

Gerard looked down at his feet, as though to check whether he was levitating or not, "My feet are pretty solid on the ground."

"Great," Frank clapped his hands together and pursed his lips. "So, um, you're dead?"

"Yeah, for a while now, I think. What year did you say it was again?"

"2018."

"Right. So if I died in 1983 then..," Gerard trailed off, mumbling to himself. "I've been dead 31 years!" he announced finally. 

"Shh!" Frank hushed. He attempted to put a hand over Gerard’s mouth, only to have it glide through the middle of his head. Frank noticed that his hand felt colder than the rest of his body. "Don't let anyone hear you! Do you want to get me killed?"

"Oops," Gerard dropped to a whisper, "I’m sorry. Thin walls?”

Frank nodded. "I'm kind of a wanted man back in Florida. Just talking to you right now is kind of risking my life."

"Is everything still like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like… against people.”

“I guess,” Frank shrugged. “I mean, there’s still issues, but the government passed a law that classified killing Phants as murder a few years back. It doesn’t stop a lot of people, though.”

"Oh," Gerard looked uncomfortable. "That's... better? I guess?"

There was a lull in their conversation, and Frank seized the opportunity to get them back on track. 

"So, how exactly did you end up here? Like, as a ghost."

"Well, I died, kinda floated around for 31 years, unaware of everything. It was like being blind and deaf and unable to feel objects." He began explaining. "And then a few days ago, I could touch things. Then, like, today, I started feeling weird. It was the first time I'd felt anything since I'd been dead. So like, I figured maybe I was finally being sent to the afterlife. That's what happened to my buddy, Ray. But then suddenly, I could see, which had also never happened. I totally panicked when I heard you open the door, because of, like, obvious reasons. Which then resulted in me knocking everything you own onto the floor," Gerard gestures to Frank’s scattered knickknacks. "And yeah. Now I'm here."

Frank would be lying if he said he didn't find the ghost's use of filler words endearing. He also desperately wanted to know how Gerard died, but thought better of asking right now.

“Listen,” Gerard started. “I know you want nothing to do with me, but I don’t know how to leave this motel room. Something won’t let me do it by myself. I’ll try not to be too disruptive. Think of me as a roommate, maybe?”

“I’m not considering you a roommate until you pay the motel fees with me.”

“That’s fair.”

The two stayed silent for a bit. Frank meant to move to pick up the things previously knocked onto the floor, but suddenly felt as though boulders had been chained to his shoes.

“Listen, um. Gerard. I’m already on the run, and keeping you here in my room would be a big risk—”

“I _know_ that,” Gerard rolled his eyes. “I told you. I’ve tried to leave, but I can’t!”

Sighing, Frank rubbed at his eyelids,"You know what, it’s late. "A wave of exhaustion rushed over his entire body. He laid down underneath his bed covers without even bothering to change into pajamas first. "I think I'm going to go sleep for twelve hours and hope you don't murder me.”

Gerard’s palms shot up defensively, "Hey! Not all ghosts are evil! That’s such a stereotype, I swear I’m friendly."

Frank snorted, reaching over to turn off the light on the side table, "Whatever you say, Casper."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t like the dialogue in this chapter but it be like that

The next few days of Frank’s life were very anxious. He was constantly on edge that someone would discover Gerard in his motel room, or that Gerard would somehow tell someone that he was a pyrokinetic. He didn’t know what to make of the spirit that now occupied his personal space.

Of course, Frank believed that not all Phants were dangerous, he was one himself. However, he’d never met a ghost, he didn’t know what they were capable of. The only things he knew about them were from horror stories he’d heard on the news, about how they stole a baby or stabbed their former lover so they could be ghosts together. He had no idea what to expect of Gerard.

"What's it like to eat?" Gerard asked one day, watching Frank flick through a newspaper he found on the street.

"Pardon?" said Frank.

"To eat," he repeated. "Like, food."

“Why?”

“I’d like to try to remember what it’s like. I want to try and connect with my human self again.”

Frank scratched at the back of his neck. He felt his growing hair between his fingers, it was starting to get long. "Uh, well, first you chew. Then it goes down your esophagus into your stomach and the digestive system-"

Gerard cut him off, "Not like that, airhead. What does food taste like? How does it feel? I can't think of my last meal. Can you help me jog my memory?"

"It depends. There's sweet things, like ice cream--which is also very cold--and sour things, like lemons. I wouldn't recommend eating lemons. Sour isn't always great. Um, hot things can burn your mouth for the whole day if it's too hot. It makes your tongue feel super weird, kind of like it's a carpet. Maybe that's just what it feels like to me."

Gerard was listening intently, hanging onto every word out of his mouth. "What else?"

"Hm, spicy foods. Hot peppers, wasabi, Tabasco sauce. Actually, I guess Tabasco sauce isn't really a food, but close enough. It burns your mouth and makes you feel like your whole face is on fire. Sometimes if it's hot enough you can start physically sweating. I don't know how some people enjoy it so much, but they do."

"I remember that!" gasped Gerard. He waved his arms excitedly, "I used to put hot sauce on _everything_. Mikey used to tell me that it was super fucking gross."

"Mikey?"

"He's my younger brother," he explained. "We used to be, like, super close."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing, to my knowledge. I don't know where he is, or what he's doing, or if he's still alive."

"Oh." Frank wasn't sure how he was supposed to reply to that. In a way, though, he could relate. He didn't know what his family down in Florida were doing. Frank had never felt more alone and disconnected to his relatives. Not even when he was a teenager, spending hours alone on the computer messaging on AOL and posting selfies on MySpace.

"Continuing on the topic of food," Frank continued, asking the question that had been burning at his mind. "Was that you who smeared toothpaste on my wall?"

"Okay, first of all: toothpaste isn't food, last time I checked."

Frank shrugged, "Times change."

Gerard crinkled his nose, " _Please_ tell me you guys don't actually eat toothpaste nowadays."

He laughed, "We don't. I was just messing with you. But seriously, was it you?"

"Yeah," Gerard admitted. "I was just trying to test what I could move. Sorry."

"No, it's alright I guess. I mean, it took like five minutes to clean up. It was just… strange.”

“Anyway,” continued Gerard, “what about drinking?”

“I usually tend to avoid alcohol, actually.”

Gerard shook his dark head, “No, not like that. Just drinking in general.”

“Dude. you’re giving me the vaguest topics to explain here!” Frank laughed a bit. And yet, he still spent the next half an hour describing the human things that Gerard missed most.

\--

The next few hours of Frank's day were spent in the library, studying up every book he could find relating to the paranormal. Not many had information about ghosts, and the ones that did barely contained anything useful.

Frank set down his eighth book, "The Afterlife: What Really Happens?" By Eleanor Charleston, in frustration. The beginnings of a headache were hovering upon him. He rubbed his tan hand at the pressure points at his temple in hopes that it would subside so he could continue his research. Frank had to figure out a way to get Gerard into the afterlife. He couldn't stay as a roommate in his hotel room forever! They would both be sure to get caught. Besides, Gerard was a little strange even without his ghastliness. One night, Frank awoke with a start to see Gerard hovering in the corner, looking straight out of a horror movie with a blank expression on his pale face. He made no movement when Frank nearly screamed in shock and panic. Frank barely slept a wink that night. Later, he explained that it was basically the ghost version of sleeping. He couldn't physically get tired, but he could shut off his senses for hours at a time and exist in a dissociated state.

The next book was a thick, gold leafed work with a chapter for nearly every paranormal thing Frank could think of and then some. He struggled under the weight of it when he picked it up. When he opened it, he was careful not to damage the old spining. The cost of this book was probably greater than his motel room fee.

The pages crinkled and cracked as he ran his finger down the table of contents, finally resting on one titled "Ghosts, Spirits, and Other Various Apparitions." He prayed that this one wouldn't be like the other books he'd scanned through, laced with bias and no use to someone who didn't want to harm Gerard.

He flipped to page 388, discovering the chapter title he had been searching for, and began to read.

"Ghosts are the closest thing to a typical human being that Phants can be known as. They are the stripped soul of what a deceased human once was. Like people, they can range from different forms of aggressiveness. Some could be extremely peaceful, others intending to cause great harm. Either way, they may possess abilities that the average human does not. Such as: telekinesis, photokinesis, mind reading, psychosis, and other abilities."

Frank swallowed, he hoped Gerard couldn't read his mind.

"Some ghosts have been reported to disappear from existence without warning. Professionals have yet to discover a reason why for this phenomenon. There appears to be no pattern between age or time spent as a spirit, it simply seems to happen at random. 

On a case in 1968, apparition Rachelle Sampson had disappeared in the center of a courtroom in the middle of stating her case. She had been a reported apparition for only 16 years.

On another case, only a few years later in 1972, ghost Winston Kelsenski simply ceased to exist one morning in his prison cell. There were no signs of an escape, and other nearby prisoners reported that he disappeared.

"[Kelsenski] was there one moment, and then I blinked and the Para* had vanished!" prisoner John Heinsfeld had spoken. Kelsenski had been a ghost for 348 years when he had disappeared. These are only a few cases of innumerable others, all seemingly completely different individuals with no common connections. This does not include the ghosts, spirits, and apparitions unknown by the government, though they are doing their best to discover every one of them."

Well, that just made Frank feel so much better, didn't it?

"These stories raise yet another question: where do they go when they disappear? Professionals once again have yet to discover an answer. Some theorize that the Earth is purgatory, and that all ghastly figures are souls waiting to be taken to be tried for a position in either Heaven or Hell. Others believe that the figures chose to become ghosts when they die, saying that it's a trick by some higher power that says they will grant the deceased eternal life. However, some sources have disproved of this theory and/or have called it incorrect. More people have their own theories about it as well."

He continued reading the rest of the passage, but there wasn't much left. Just other things about peculiar cases involving ghosts, spirits, and apparitions (Frank couldn't figure out the difference between them, but the texts appeared to suggest that there was one.)

Eventually, he had had enough of reading the same bits of information over and over in the dusty library. Frank collected the books, put them back in their respective places, and left the library. He'd figure out how to get rid of Gerard some other time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen ik frank is a Big Dumbass in this but it’s for the plot also it’s fanfiction and i’m lazy

"I swear to fuck—Jesus Christ!"

Gerard loomed over Frank’s face with a grin, "I don’t think Jesus would appreciate that."

Frank sat up, "Dude, what are you doing? It's ass-o'clock in the morning!"

"Actually, it's eight."

"Great," Frank groaned, slumping back onto his pillow. "Out of all the ghosts, I had to get stuck with the annoying one." Gerard shot back an indignant “Hey!”

He laid on the hard mattress for a few more minutes, until he eventually decided it was time to wake up. He sat up and stretched his arms high above his head, twisting his stiff neck to the side and cracking it. The back of his throat tickled like someone had unexpectedly shoved a feather into his mouth, causing Frank to violently cough into his elbow and startling Gerard.

“Are you alright?” Gerard asked.

“Yeah. Humans do a little thing called coughing, in case you don’t remember.”

“Of course I remember _coughing_ , smartass. I was alive like, only three decades ago. 

“Can’t relate,” Frank opened his suitcase to search for things to dress nicely in. “I’m a nineties baby.”

“That’s weird. I still feel like you shouldn’t have even been born yet.” Gerard said. 

Frank shrugged, sniffing a plaid button up to see if it was still wearable, “Yeah, well, I’m not the one who’s fuckin’ dead, so.”

Throughout the week, Frank had been scouring the shop windows for any one that had a “help wanted” sign posted to them. The first job was at a small flower shop not far from where he lived. Frank rounded the corner to where it was located, staring at the cloudy windows covered in grime and the muddy walls. He recognized the strong scent of fertilizer wafting from inside. Without further ado, he allowed himself into the shop, looking around for anyone who could be recognized as a worker. A bell tinkled overhead, reminding himself of Stump and Son's bakery. He vaguely wondered how the two were doing, and made a mental note to go back there for some of their baked goods sometime.

Soon Frank discovered that it wasn't actually that difficult to find an employee, because there were no customers in the shop. This shouldn't have surprised him. He doesn't think he's been someplace in this town with more than 3 other people in the same vicinity. He didn't know how all of these stores managed to remain open. Their paychecks must be pitiful.

Frank willed himself to stop thinking that way. After all, if everything went well, he would be receiving one of those pitiful paychecks. And that was better than getting none at all.

There was a miserable looking woman behind a counter. Frank stepped up to her and handed her his handwritten resume. She gave him a side eye from over the rim of her glasses.

"You're interested in working here?" she asked. From behind her legs, a bloodhound raised its head from the dog bed it was lying on.

"Yes," answered Frank. "I noticed the sign outside and was wondering if you would be willing to hire me."

The woman picked up his resume and began reading it with the paper pinched precariously between her two fingers. The sight of her eyes quickly scanning the words began to give Frank anxiety.

"It says here you used to garden for your grandparents for money down in Florida, correct?"

"Yes. They were getting too old to do it themselves so I offered to do it for them. I did it for two years until they both died," Frank answered. He decided to fold his hands in front of his stomach in hopes that it would make him seem more professional.

The woman must have noticed what he was doing, and shook her head with a small smile. "Oh, you don't have to act all fancy over here. Do ya' see me? I'm covered in horse shit and I haven't taken a shower in six days."

Frank made a face. The lady laughed at his obvious disgust.

"You aren't a clean freak, are ya'? Because if so then you can just walk right out of here," she said bluntly.

He shook his head, "No, um..." he gestured towards her, signaling for her to give him her name.

"Lindsey."

"Lindsey," he repeated. "I'm definitely not a clean freak. You should see my motel room.” Frank gave her a charming grin. 

“You live in one of those? Which one?”

“Lycester. It was the only one I could afford,” he said, hoping that he could earn some pity points. 

Now it was Lindsey's turn to make a face, "Oh, that dump? Jeez, kid. You must really need a job if you're staying there. I swear, you could get eight different types of STDs just from touching one of their bed sheets."

"Well, that's delightful to know after laying on them for three weeks."

Lindsey let out a hearty laugh, slapping Frank on the shoulder and making him wince. "I like you," she admitted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I see potential in you. Let me look at your hands," she demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"Your hands, bring 'em over." Frank obliged immediately, only because he was a bit intimidated by this woman.

"Hm," Lindsey mumbled to herself. She inspected Frank's fingers with her own. "Long fingers. Nice. Good for reaching deep into the soil. Unlike my hands, see?" she held up her own fingers. "Ain't no roots being dug up with these babies."

She turned her focus back to Frank's hands. "Crooked knuckles, that's a bit of a downside. You broke your bone here on your left ring finger when you were seven. Fell off your skateboard."

"How did you know that?" he resisted the urge to retract his hands.

"I'm practicing to become a psychic in my free time,” she nonchalantly answered.

Frank didn't know how to reply, "Oh. Cool."

"Anyways," Lindsey carried on. "I'll consider you. I've only got two other employees. They're in the back right now, tending to the daisies. It can never hurt to have more hands on deck, right?"

"Right," Frank replied.

\--

On his way back from his third interview, Frank was incredibly tired. Dressing up and begging for people of authority’s approval was draining. His resume and the way the tag of his shirt itched at his neck only assisted his mood. The jobs he checked out weren’t the highest paying, but they would have to do for now. Frank swore he could hear his wallet weeping sometimes.

Even though it was barely five pm, the sun was setting low in the late November sky. It was well below freezing by the ocean. The air around Frank swirled and froze his exposed flesh. His fingertips turned bright red, as though he was going to guide Santa’s sleigh through the fog with his hands. Frank scanned the area around him. It was nearly deserted. Surely, nobody would notice if he ducked behind a building and warmed his hands for five seconds. Right?

After a miniature battle with himself, weighing the pros and cons, Frank eventually decided that he would. No more than five seconds, he bargained. He chose the darkest and sketchiest looking alley and ducked into the shadows. They enveloped him in a blanket of darkness, suffocating his eyeballs.

Just five seconds, he reminded himself again. Frank concentrated hard on allowing the sensation inside of him flow up to his palms. He shielded the light peeking beneath his fingers with his jacket. FInally, he felt the warmth rush through his skin as though the sun had peeked it’s way out again through the cloudy night. A sigh of relief dared escape his thin lips.

“What… are… you-you doing?” a slow voice asked. Frank nearly leapt out of his shoes.

“Who’s there?” he asked, extinguishing his hands. Oh no, this was bad.

Something moved around in the darker parts of the shadows. It moved closer until, finally, Frank could make out the small outline of a human.

“What are you do-doing?” they asked again. Frank backed himself into the light of the street, where more witnesses could see him if he happened to get attacked. The person followed them until Frank could make out hair shining in the streetlight like gold glitter. They looked up, and he caught the face of a curious young girl, maybe in her young teens. She pointed to both of her ears and shook her head.

"You can't hear me?" Frank asked. He tried to speak slowly and clearly so that she could read his lips easier. The girl nodded in agreement.

"Saw...light," she said. Her voice was thick, like she was speaking through water. "F-f-from your hands."

"Um, no. Sorry, you must be mistaken," Frank panicked. Even if the girl couldn't hear, she could still talk, and talking meant telling. He glanced at a sign in the liquor store window that showed it's support for Richard Floores, a man running for representative of New Hampshire who was heavily against Phant rights and everything they stand for. He was such a big deal that Frank knew about him way down in Florida.

The girl nodded, and began to retreat back into the shadows.

"Wait!" Frank motioned to catch her attention. "What's your name?"

"Ha-Haley."

"Do you need me to bring you somewhere? Could the police station help?"

Haley's eyes widened larger than Jupiter. She began shaking her head furiously. "Don't. Don't. Don't," she chanted. "Don'tdon'tdon't!"

"Aright! I won't!" Frank said. Haley still remained frightened-looking. "I won't do anything as long as you don't mention anything you saw me do or didn't do with my hands, okay?"

Haley nodded, blonde hair bouncing everywhere. Like a mouse, she scuttled back into the shadows and out of sight. Frank's entire body shook. That had been such a close call. How could he have been such an idiot to use his powers outside?

Still shaky and paranoid, he continued his journey home, scolding himself for his own moment of stupidity. No way would he ever risk that again.


	6. Chapter 6

The coffee shop didn't call back, and neither did the convenience store. However, on Saturday, the old motel telephone in Frank's room rang out loudly. Frank and Gerard both jumped with a start.

"What was that?" Gerard asked, looking frightened.

Frank let out a small laugh, "It was just the telephone, don't worry."

"Oh," he sighed. "Of course."

The young man reached over to grab the yellow phone from its stand. He curled the wire around his finger and watched it spring off again. 

"Hello?" a familiar voice called from the other end of the line, followed by a deep dog's bark. "Would this happen to be the room of Frank Iero?"

"Why do you ask?" Frank questioned with paranoia. He was worried that the police from Florida had finally caught up to him. He didn't want to be arrested. Or, if worse came to worse, killed.

The person on the other line snorted, "Don't worry, kid. it's Lindsey from the flower shop you applied for a few days ago." 

"Oh! Sorry about that. I couldn't recognize your voice on these phones."

"I know, right. They're not nearly as good as the fancy gadgets you kids have today."

"Ha, yeah. Anyways, what did you call about?" Frank asked.

"Well, I wanted to ask if you were interested in becoming an employee of mine," offered Lindsey.

He let out a gasp that he hoped didn't carry over to the other line, "Uh- yes. Yes, I'm very interested in that."

"Great. I'll see you tomorrow at 8am. Alright, kid?"

"Yes. Great. Okay, um. Thank you!"

Lindsey laughed, "Don't mention it." The line went dead not long after that. Frank set down the phone while Gerard looked over at him curiously.

"What was that?" he asked.

Frank smiled, “I have a job at some flower shop. One called Pots and Petals.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that!”

“Congrats!” Gerard said. He removed his transparent dark hair away from his face. “When do you start?”

“Tomorrow at eight.”

“Rad,” replied Gerard. Suddenly, his face dropped.

"What's wrong?"

He poked at his arms, "Do I look more solid to you than usual?"

Frank squinted his eyes. Sure, Gerard had been becoming easier to see in the past few weeks or so, but he had assumed it was because his eyes were becoming used to staring at his figure. Now that he looked closer, he noticed that--while he certainly wasn't an opaque human--Gerard seemed sturdier, and more like a living creature. 

"I guess you do," admitted Frank.

Gerard fiddled with the hem of his old shirt, "What do you think this means?" he looked up with wide, worried eyes. "I mean, first I actually start physically existing, and now it's like I'm not stopping. What's happening to me?"

Frank wanted to console him, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't assure Gerard that nothing bad was happening, because he honestly didn't know. Neither of them did.

"Don't worry about it too much right now. We'll figure it out later, together," is all that he said, and it seemed to be enough for Gerard at the moment.

Since it was the last day of the week, Frank was forced to venture out to buy groceries. He decided that he was going to start with Stump and Son’s, deciding that it was time to go back and buy some fresh bread. He had been avoiding them for a while, since their goods were on the more expensive side of the market, but he figured that he could treat himself a bit considering his new job.

Frank grabbed his green jacket off of its hook, “Alright, well, I’m hungry. Gonna go get something to eat. Try not to break anything while I’m gone.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Gerard sarcastically. He raised his hand in a mock salute to his forehead as the door closed, separating the man and apparition.

The hallway appeared brighter than usual when he walked down it. It took Frank’s brain a minute to realize that it was because, for once, the sun was out. The glass in the windows sparkled with happiness, allowing the light to shine through it with ease. He passed Mr. Weekes on his way out, smiling at the stoic man and receiving little reply.

Outside was even more beautiful than Frank had imagined. It was the nicest day he had witnessed while staying in Lycester. The ocean applauded Mother Nature’s good spirits, clapping heartily against the shoreline. There were fewer boats tied to the harbor and more being put to use in the water. The colors popped out, on the petals of the flowers planted in cottage window sills and on the chalk murals drawn on the sidewalks by the young children. Frank had an extra spring in his step as he made his way through the town, slowing down in order to admire all of the calming scenery. Eventually, though, he was forced to speed up by the brutal and persistent cold.

“Welcome back, Frank Iero,” Patrick greeted almost immediately. He was sat alone at the counter, bagging a pastry for a customer. The shop was much warmer than the outdoors, heating Frank from his head to down deep in his toes.

“Why do you do that?” Frank asked.

Patrick’s nose scrunched in confusion, “Do what?”

“Address me by my full name.”

“Oh,” his face cleared. “Well, it would be silly to call you by only part of your name, wouldn’t it? What if there were two Franks? Then there would be a confusion.”

He nodded, even though his logic didn’t make much sense in Frank’s mind. He decided it wasn’t worth trying to understand.

“Anyways,” Patrick continued, “what inspired you to visit the shop this morning?”

Just as he was about to answer, Frank’s stomach let out a mighty growl, “My stomach.”

“Ah, I see.” he turned back to his previous customer; a man in a long coat and a dress shirt, most likely on his way to work. He held a couple dollars in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other. Patrick handed him his bagged pastry, “Will that be all, Salathiel Dirk?”

Salathiel nodded politely and paid before exiting the shop. The bell tingled overhead.

“So, your dad’s not here today?” Frank asked.

“No, I’m afraid he’s too bedridden to attend work for the time being. It’s only my sister and I now.”

Now that Frank looked at Patrick, he did appear rather exhausted. His posture was slouched and there were darkening bags underneath his eyes.

“Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that,” Frank said. “Send him a get well from me, please.”

Patrick gave him a grateful smile, “Will do. What can I get you?” He directed the conversation back towards food.

“A loaf of the bread you gave me last time, if you happen to remember what kind it was.”

“Of course I do! I remember every single thing I’ve sold to customers. You’re talking about the Scally bread, correct?”

He stared at Frank, not making any move towards the bread, “You look Italian.”

“Probably... because I am?” he said, but it turned out as more of a question than a statement.

Patrick smirked, his glasses slipping over the bridge of his nose, “That’s probably why Pa gave you the bread. He’s clever that way, did you know? Italian bread to an Italian person.”

“Uh, sure?”

Finally, Patrick reached over and grabbed a loaf of Scally bread off of one of the racks behind the counter. He placed it on the counter, next to the cash register, “Will this be all?”

Frank pondered for a moment. Was he willing to spend a few extra dollars for a muffin? His stomach concluded the decision before his brain did.

He crouched down to stare at the goods in the glass display, “Could I get that blueberry muffin, please?”

“Of course!” Patrick replied cheerfully. He unlocked the glass case with a jangling set of keys and opened the door, extracting the muffin and placing it on the counter. Frank paid for his things and left the shop in relatively good spirits. Good enough that the signs that read “BRING BACK THE WITCH TRIALS” and "PARA RIGHTS? SAY 'NO'" in the front windows of the shop barely even disturbed his mind.

Frank took the muffin from the bag, careful to not drop his loaf of bread. He unwrapped it clumsily and took a bite. It was probably the best thing his mouth had tasted in a while. He could hear his tongue hollering with joy. This was so much better than carrots and chips every day.

The piles of dead leaves crunched beneath his boots as he wandered around town. He had started to stray a little from the main part of town, where Lycester Motel was located, and instead was walking towards the neighborhoods of nothing but houses. They were paneled houses, with colors dulled and faded by the sun and snow. The yards were yellow and dying along with the trees and brush that surrounded them. Some of them had children's toys or rickety swing sets in the backyard.

Frank remembered the time when he was eleven. His dad had just finished building their own swing set for Frank and his siblings. Marina, his little sister, had immediately claimed the left swing. His older brother Nico chose the one on the right. Frank had gotten the one in the middle. 

One day, when he was 16, he was swinging on his swing with Marina, who 13 at the time. Nico had just left for college. The two siblings were silent as they swung. Frank was internally battling with himself. He couldn't help but feel angry that his brother had left him as the only boy in the family, but at the same time he understood the importance of college and what it would do for his future. He hated himself for thinking of his brother as selfish, because he was the exact opposite of that. Sure, he had his brotherly moments, like that time he locked Frank in a dog cage at his Aunt Christa's house for five hours on Christmas Eve. Or that time he convinced Marina that if she ate eggs, she would shit chicklets and have to care for them. 

But ignoring those, he was a model child. He was going to a big college on a football scholarship (a sport Frank had never been good at). He had a job and a girlfriend and an actual future ahead of him. Frank's parents were so relieved that at least one of their kids wouldn't end up homeless or a drug addict. 

"You look sad," Marina observed.

Frank rolled his eyes, "No shit, Mina. My brother just left me."

" _Our_ brother just left us, you mean," Marina corrected, giving him a glance.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

"I thought you'd be happier," she continued.

"What?" he asked, looking confused. "Why?"

"Well, for starters, you get your own room now."

She wasn't wrong. All of Nico's stuff had been moved out last minute, leaving Frank with a space to himself. To be honest, it felt too empty without Nico's bed and dresser and dirty clothes occupying all of that space.

Frank kicked off the ground with his dirty sneakers, the swing let out a dangerous groan.

"What the-" he started, but was cut off by surprise. The bar in the middle of the swingset that held the swings suddenly snapped while Frank was flying high in midair, sending him tumbling to the ground. Marina was able to get off her own swing without much difficulty and rushed over to her older brother, who was lying huddled on the ground. 

"Are you okay?" she cried.

Frank groaned in pain, clutching his arms to his chest, "What does it look like, Mina?"

"Oh _merda_ , do you have to go to the hospital?"

"No, I don't think so," he replied. "The swing set might need a cast, though."

The two kids simultaneously looked up at the swing set, now separated into two different sections due to the missing part in the middle, that was lying on the ground next to Frank's swing.

"Can you stand?" Marina asked him.

Frank pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the grass rubbed against his sore hands, "Yeah, I think I'm okay."

His sister glanced at the mud and grass stains on his scrawny teenage body, "Let's check with mom anyways."

Funny, current Frank thought, how his swing was the first one to leave the swingset, and he was the first to leave the family. It wasn't like he wanted to, though. He had been forced to. It's what happens when you accidentally kill three people with fire conjured from your palms. 

He shook that memory from his head, but it persisted. Two masked men were attempted to break into a locked car with a little girl inside, no older than five or six. Frank didn't know what their intentions were, but nothing good could come from a crowbar to a car window. He had tried to stop the men, telling them to leave, that he was going to call the police on them, but they didn't listen. Instead, one advanced on Frank while the other continued to work on the car. The little girl screamed for help so loud that they could hear it from outside the vehicle. One of the men shoved Frank, catching him by surprise. He didn't mean for the flame to shoot from his hand, but he didn't know how to control it. And he definitely didn't mean for it to hit the car with the little girl inside.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Frank had yelled aloud as the car set aflame, drowning out the cries of the girl. He was cowardly. He shouldn't have backed away from the vehicle, he should have rushed towards it and risked his life to save the girl (his power to control fire didn't include resistance to its effects). However, none of that happened. Instead, he shoved the man that had approached him into the fire, knocking him and his partner into the flame as well. 

Frank had bolted, as far away as he could with tears streaming from his eyes. One of the men--he couldn't tell which one--followed after him while the other one still struggled with being consumed by the heat of the fire. 

"You bastard! Get back here!" the man shouted at him, but he didn't cease his sprint. The only time he dared to look back was when he heard the incredibly loud noise, signaling that the car had blown up. 

"No!" Frank cried. His sobbing began to get worse. He knew in his chest that the girl hadn't survived.

He started to run again before the criminal could catch up to him. He ran and ran for what felt like forever. He was too scared and full of hatred for himself to go back to his house, where he would be all alone. At least, out with nature, he could be connected to the rest of the world. Even when it was late, and there were close to no one out on the street. 

Except, of course, cars parked behind gas stations with little girls in the back seat. And criminals who try to hurt them. And someone who had to come along and fuck it up for everyone.


	7. Chapter 7

The flower shop hadn't changed since the last time Frank had entered. It still smelled like soil and manure, and it was still untidily packed with various types of plants. However, his status had changed from customer to employee.

"Hey, Iero!" Lindsey shouted from behind her wooden counter. This time, she was accompanied by two other teenagers. He assumed that they were the other employees Lindsey had mentioned last time, the ones that were working in another room.

"This is Nicole," introduced Lindsey, pointing to a tall girl with long blonde tied away from her face. She gave Frank a shy wave. "And this is Brendon."

Brendon stood only a little above Nicole. He was all brown eyes and charming smile, but still fairly young. Maybe 16 or 17. When shook Frank's hand, Frank thought he was going to break the entire body part.

The bloodhound Frank had saw last time he'd visited was out and about the room, nose glued to the ground. It stopped in front of his legs, sniffing them up and down and wagging its tail.

Lindsey laughed, "That's Goose. Don't worry about him, he won't bite."

"Goose?" he asked.

"I found him as a puppy surrounded by a mother goose and her children. The name felt right," one of the workers, Brendon, explained.

"Kids, welcome Frank to the crew. Hopefully we won't have to fire him," said Lindsey.

"We'll show you to the back," Brendon offered, looking back at Frank. The two teens led Frank down rows and rows of greenery and flowers. Bags of soil and plant food lined the walls. The windows were steamy and covered in a thin layer of grime, probably due to the humidity levels in the building as opposed to outdoors. 

The back room was where the vegetables were grown, he soon found out. What appeared to be a hundred different types of tomatoes were to the left, along with squash and onion and radishes. To the right there were carrots, peas, et cetera. Frank didn't know how they managed to grow it all.

"Cool," he said intelligently.

"Isn't it?" Nicole replied. "C'mon, I'll show you how to water the plants."

"I think I already know how to--"

"No, idiot. I'll show you the proper way."

Frank ducked his head, nodding and followed the girl to the back of the room, where a dirty sink and a rusty watering can was located. She turned on the sink's faucet, letting cool, clear water flow through the pipes. 

She took the full watering can and turned to the nearest plant behind her, one of the tomatoes. She handed Frank the can and adjusted his grip on it. 

"Jesus Christ, have you ever watered anything in your life?" she asked.

"Well," he started, a little ashamed that he appeared so ignorant. "I tended to my grandparent's garden for two years."

Nicole brushed a stray lock from her face, "I know, Lindsey told us about you. I feel bad for your poor grandparent's plants."

"Nikki!" Brendon called from across the room, making Nicole turn her head, whacking Frank in the face with her ponytail in the process. "Quit bullying the guy!"

She sighed, "It's not my fault this nimrod is the least qualified for the job!" Ouch.

Brendon shook his head, going back to whatever he was doing. Frank wished that he had been the one to offer to teach him instead of Nicole. He wasn't going to lie, she scared him a little. 

He continued watering each plant pot, listening to Nicole criticize him every time and trying to adjust his actions. By the end of his practice, his arm was shaky and he felt like crying in frustration. He couldn't understand what he was doing wrong or what he did to deserve being so brutally bullied by this teenage girl.

"Yo, Frank!" Brendon called yet again. "Come over, I've gotta show you something!" He wanted to weep in relief. 

"What's up?" asked Frank once he escaped from Nicole.

He shrugged, "Not much, really, I just figured you could use an escape."

"You could say that again."

Brendon scratched the back of his head, rustling his pale head. "I don't know why Nik is acting the way she is. She's always been a really kind girl, but the past few days she's been super pissy. Even at me. And I'm, like, her best friend," he explained in a whisper.

"Huh."

"Don't let it get to your head. She doesn't hate you, I promise. Maybe it's something going on at home. Or maybe her Mr-Varsity-Football-Quarterback-Asshole boyfriend broke up with her. I wouldn't be surprised."

His tone was so bitter, Frank could taste it in his own mouth. 

"Anyways, while you're here, wanna dig up some roots?"

"Sounds like a blast," Frank sarcastically replied.

Brendon laughed a little, "Doesn't it? Okay, let me show you how." He reached over to a plant and dug his fingers into the dirt. "So first, you have to dig your fingers deep into the soil and hook them in there. Try to find the biggest roots, it'll make it easier in the long run. Then, you have to pull with both hands, preferably with an equal force, and uproot the whole thing, If you do it with an unequal force, you might end up with only half a plant in your hand."

"Noted," he said, digging his hands into a different pot and trying to mimic Brendon's moves.

"Good, good," Brendon observed. "Try to curl your fingers a bit more around the roots, they look too stiff from here."

Frank obliged, curling his fingertips and having them search for the largest one of the roots. Eventually, he found them and pulled them upwards with both hands. It was messy, much messier than Brendon had done it.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath as soil fell all over his shoes. A hearty laugh emitted from Brendon's lips. Nicole simply glanced over at the two with a disappointed glare, though that appeared to be her permanent facial expression.

"Piss off, Nikki," Brendon yelled to her, noticing her attention, though his tone remained light and humorous. She replied wordlessly, though her middle finger did all the talking required.

Frank hummed, "Do you like her?" he asked nonchalantly. 

Brendon nearly dropped his plant, "What?"

"Do you like Nicole?" he repeated. "I was a teenager once too, you know. I know how this shit works."

He received a jab to the arm, "Can it, old man. This isn't some RomCom. Nicole is like a sister to me. I love her, but not like that."

Frank nodded, deciding to drop it. He went back to uprooting plants, making easy conversation with Brendon and picking the caked dirt from his palms and underneath his fingernails.


End file.
